Anne Evans: Poems and Music :: :: University of Virginia Library

O, roses red and roses white,
You are my garden's rare delight!
I'll reap my roses, dewy sweet,
And lay them at my lady's feet,
In a wide, rich harvest.

Sing loud, blithe birds, among the trees,
For there's a death-bell on the breeze;
And how shall I go to and fro,
To pluck my roses where they blow,
With a death-bell tolling?

Last night, my lady sang to me,
Her soul elate with melody;
And tuning so the tranquil air,
Methought she grew more lovely fair
In the pale still moonshine.

But in the moonshine pale and still,
Her beauty struck me with a chill:
Her voice went soaring crystal-clear,
And yet my heart went fast for fear,
Where the shade fell round me.

Now welcome shines the light of day,
To chase the shadows all away;
For who would fold his hands and grieve
O'er phantasies of yestereve,
On a gay June morning?

I come to greet my lady bright,
With new-blown roses, red and white.
“Bring in the white, but leave the red:
Your lady lies here cold and dead,
In a death-deep silence.